


being known

by QueenHarleyQuinn



Category: Once Upon A Time In Hollywood (2019)
Genre: Emotional, Introspection, Love, M/M, saying i love you without saying i love you, two perspectives
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-14
Updated: 2020-01-14
Packaged: 2021-02-27 05:47:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,578
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22252069
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/QueenHarleyQuinn/pseuds/QueenHarleyQuinn
Summary: They both have to face the truth of their lives at some point; Rick does it the night of the attack and Cliff does it the next morning.
Relationships: Cliff Booth & Rick Dalton, Cliff Booth/Rick Dalton
Comments: 11
Kudos: 95





	being known

**Author's Note:**

> "If we want the rewards of being loved we have to submit to the mortifying ordeal of being known,"  
> Tim Kreider  
> The New York Times

There’s a great many shocking revelations that come barreling into Rick’s life at about the same time as those idiot, hippie fucks. The booze and worry and, honestly, delusions that blinded him peaking in one unbelievable night before finally starting to fall away.

Or maybe that’s just more of his moronic hope. Maybe if he - shit what did alcoholics call it? Personal inventory? - maybe if he took a personal inventory he’d see that there’s still an unbelievable, maybe insurmountable, stock of anxiety and lunacy rattling inside him.

Can anyone blame him, though? His home was invaded, best friend stabbed and wife unconscious (well, that was of her own volition and, frankly, Rick’s a little jealous).

It was easy to ignore the quivering mess inside himself as he walked up Sharon Tate’s driveway. With Jay looking at him with equal parts shock and admiration as he recounts the night. On Sharon’s couch he tells the story at least three more times as she fans herself and her friends share joints (Rick takes a puff from one and finds that it makes his brain slow down a touch).

Rick is able to pointedly look away from the startling truths of his life for a few hours until he figures he ought to get out of Sharon’s hair and let the very pregnant woman get to bed. She insists on walking him back down the driveway and he’s thankful because it feels a little like having a guardian angel.

“You’re sure you’re going to be okay? We can always make up the couch for you.” She offers sweetly, smiling and absently rubbing her stomach. 

She has a house full of friends but she still tries to reach out and help him, some TV cowboy of all people. Rick smiles back, bashful and finally feeling a little high, “Th-thank you, but I got to get back to the wife.”

“Well, don’t be a stranger. We should get together under better circumstances.” She punctuates the statement by squeezing his shoulder. 

Rick’s not even sure what to say to that. Not sure if there’s some light, affable response he should have ready. He settles on his sincerest, “Thank you, I’d r-really like that.” 

He floats past the gate and down to his home, in the heat of the summer night. The realization that he left the door unlocked is what jolts him back to reality. What kind of goddamn idiot gets his house broken into and doesn’t think to lock the door behind him? Rick Dalton, apparently. That kind of idiot.

Stepping into his house, Rick is hit with the scent of drying blood. Like someone shoved a jar full of pennies under his nose. He squeezes his eyes shut and tries not to think about it too hard but then there’s an undercurrent of something else. A little bit of rot and decay and he knows he can’t ignore it forever.

One thing at a time; Rick locks the front door and then rushes to the backdoor, around bloody patches of carpet, to lock that too. On counter in the kitchen Margarita melts in the blender adding the smell of tequila and lime into the mix. He takes a swig before dumping the blender into the sink.

He turns and gets the full, unadulterated view of his trashed living room. The blood and pulp, the destroyed phone and smashed, framed poster. This is his life - the real, unobstructed truth of his existence. Broken glass and setting stains and death  hanging in the air. He looks at the ground, at the spot where he thought Cliff was bleeding out and dying, and suddenly understands that he’ll never be able to look at anything in this house the same again.

Rick had stumbled in, flamethrower still equipped and barely fitting through the back door. He flung it all off when he saw Cliff lying there with a knife jutting out of him. Truthfully he could hear his wife crying in their room down the hall but it hadn’t occurred to him one way or the other to check on her. Was she crying from fear? From pain or injury?Rick didn’t know and wouldn’t for some time. He forgoes being a decent husband, the kind that would pull his wife into his arms and say soothing things, and decided to be what he’d always been; Rick Dalton, the man who cares a little too much about Cliff Booth.

Rick, after glancing around to make sure that those were dead hippie bodies on the ground, knelt by Cliff and put his ear to Cliff’s heart to see if it still beat. His head followed the rise and fall Cliff’s solid chest but it seemed a little shallow. Distant. Rick sat up again and smoothed back Cliff’s hair, without thinking about it, as he panicked. The gesture more of a comfort to himself than anything as Rick parsed out what to do.

“Think you,” Cliff finally uttered, lulled back into consciousness, “y’might call 911? Maybe a...ah, fuck, whatsit called? Anbulance. An anbulance?”

“Ambulance, right, sh-shit, of course,” Rick said, pulling his hand away. Relieved that Cliff is there, if a little out of sorts. Terrified of the implication that he needs medical assistance and doesn’t care that calling 911 means that cops will be poking around.

“Yeah. That’s it. One of those,” Cliff laughed.

At least he was still high. 

Rick didn’t think about what he was touching as he rang the number. He stared up at the ceiling as he said - shit, what did he even say? Hopefully nothing stupid like ‘Hello, this is Rick Dalton, you might remember me from  Bounty Law , I need help.’ Hopefully he didn’t make a complete ass of himself, crying and screaming for an ambulance. Hopefully he called, calmly, and seemed like an actor who wasn’t on the verge of breaking down at the thought of losing his stuntman forever.

That’s what he thinks about now as he stares at the bloody, Jackson Pollock, carpet. How he almost lost Cliff forever. His knees wobble a little as he forces himself away from the crime scene and to his bedroom. When Rick gets to the door he jiggles the knob to find that it’s locked. Rick sighs and stumbles into the guest room, peels off his clothes, and climbs into bed. 

A moment later he’s up and he locks the guest room door. Francesca’s got the right idea.

Rick lays there, thankful for the cool sheets against his skin, but sure that he’ll never fall asleep. He’ll exist in this exhausted state for the rest of time as he comes to terms with the fact that he was, without a doubt, supposed to die tonight. If it hadn’t been for Cliff and Brandy he would have been slaughtered or drowned in the pool. He imagines the news reel that would have played ‘Former star Rick Dalton found slain with new wife. Stunt double and possible wife killer to blame?’

And then Rick’s reliving that whole debacle again. Any sane person would have kicked Cliff to the curb the moment he was taken in for questioning. A rocky marriage, a boat rental and a faulty harpoon gun? Maybe that’s not enough for the court of law to convict but it should be plenty for anyone else paying attention. 

But Rick’s never believed that’s how it happened. Then again, he’s never asked, but still. He would know, wouldn’t he? He and Cliff were together for a few years at that point. He’d looked into those blue eyes enough times, maybe too deeply for a strictly employer-employee relationship. He would have seen murderous intent. 

All he saw was Cliff. All he ever saw was Cliff.

Cliff Booth, strong and stoic and oddly charming in ways Rick has only been able to mimic on screen. Cliff Booth with his easy smiles and capable hands. Cliff Booth who, for some goddamn reason, stuck around despite Rick’s unwavering meltdowns.

It was never just about the meal ticket. That’s what Rick figures out, curled in the guest bed, unable to get comfortable. You don’t take a knife to the side for just anyone - especially when that person had officially let you go as an employee. The honest truth was that Rick needed Cliff in his life in order to function on any level at all and Cliff, for some reason, was okay with that. Even when work trickled from slow to nonexistent. Even when Rick asked if he minded driving him around and doing odd jobs. Cliff stuck around and cushioned all the spots in Rick’s life that we’re too abrasive to face alone.

Now, alone in a bed that didn’t feel like his, maybe finally coming down from the events of the night, Rick saw his life how it really was. Built on the support Cliff provided. Resting on his strong and ever available shoulders, like Atlas and the earth.

And now his Atlas was in the hospital. Jesus fucking Christ.  
  


—

Cliff wakes early in the morning but it’s meaningless because as soon as he’s aware of his own consciousness the nurse comes by and gives him another round of knock out drugs.

The next time he wakes there’s the sun is blazing through the blinds in the afternoon. Cliff squints up at the ceiling and wonders, vaguely, if he’ll be allowed sentience a little longer this time.

“Y-you awake, buddy?”

Cliff shifts in the hospital bed, paper gown crinkling, as he sees Rick sitting uncomfortably in the chair across from his bed.

And, maybe if it didn’t feel like there was more cobweb then brain in his skull, he shouldn’t be surprised to see him. Rick’s always been there, in his own, stunted way. He used to yell for ice or bandages if Cliff ever got too banged up on set. Glaring at other stunt guys if they ever missed their mark and hit Cliff for real.

And this situation seems to be a little more serious than taking a hard bump on set.

“Yeah,” Cliff nods and smiles when Rick holds up a brown paper bag, “Holy shit, you actually brought ‘em.”

Rick pulls his chair up, scraping on the hospital linoleum, but grinning slightly like he’s finally been given permission to sit closer. “Y-you asked for them. Th-they might be cold though.”

They are. The cream cheese has gone waxy and filmy on top but it’s the first bit of solid food Cliff has seen since last night’s ordeal. Cliff shoves half a bagel in his mouth as Rick grabs the pack of cigarettes and lighter from his pocket.

“How’s Frannie?” Cliff asks, eyeing the cigarette between Rick’s lips.

Rick blinks like he doesn’t recognize his own wife’s name before shrugging and offering his smoke to Cliff. “She’s fine...w-well, actually I haven’t seen her since last night. M’guessin’ sh-she took some Valium or something.”

Cliff grabbed the cigarette and took a few deep drags, luxuriating in the feeling of smoke in his lungs for a moment. Then he passes it back to Rick, like they’re two kids sneaking contraband. That’s how being in the hospital makes him feel, like some child that has to be monitored and fussed over and pumped full of morphine.

“How are you?” Rick asks after blowing smoke up toward the ceiling. It creates a haze as fluorescent light pierced through it.

Cliff shrugs, “Been better. Been worse, too.”

Rick looks at him, at the IV and heart monitor and whatever other apparatuses they have hooked up to Cliff. He stares with his light blue eyes, looking exhausted and unwilling to accept the non answer from Cliff.

Oh. So they’re doing this - they’re going to have to talk about it  all . “Had a minor surgery and some stitches,” Cliff elaborates, fingers itching for the cigarette, “ain’t nothin’.”

Tears well up in Rick’s eyes and he scrambles to wipe them away before the can fall. Roughly, with the back of his hand. Maybe he’s embarrassed of crying in front of Cliff this time because he can’t lean over and hide his face in Cliff’s shoulders this time.

Well he  could . But a nurse is due to come in any moment.

“Ahh, hell, don’t be crying over me, man,” Cliff soothes, his hand reaching out and resting for a moment on Rick’s knee. Out of view from any nurses passing by. “I’m here. We’re both here.”

“Th-thought you were dying,” Rick sniffles and takes a puff from his cigarette, “Jesus, it’s my-my goddamn fault your here.”

“Why? We’re you the hippie that stabbed me?”

Rich shrugs but Cliff looks at him until he answers properly, “N-no.”

“Then it ain’t your fault. Ain’t nobody’s fault except the fuckers who did it, and trust me I made ‘em pay.” Cliff says, more than a little smug. He squeezes Rick’s knee before pulling his hand away.

Something in what Cliff said must have lessened some of the guilt because Rick sits up and huffs a short laugh, “Yeah, I saw - saw your handiwork.”

Cliff grins, “Left a mess, huh? Shit, sorry about that.”

“Don’t say sorry to me, say s-s-sorry to the phone or the fire place mantle or the coffee table-“

“And the poster,” Cliff nods, finishing for him, “Call it redecorating. Hell, maybe that wife of yours will have an excuse to get new furniture.”

Rick rolls his eyes, “Just what I need, her spending money.”

The conversation lulls as they start trading the cigarette again until the nurse comes in. Then Rick holds it and acts like it’s just him who’s been smoking so the nurse doesn’t start yelling. And there it is again, those small ways that Rick looks out for him.

The nurse eyes them, probably suspicious of the bag of bagels and smoke, but she doesn’t say anything. They’re both thankful for that as she leaves.

“Hey,” Rick finally says, his eyes gazing at the floor and then finally up to Cliff, “thank you, y’know? For everything.”

Cliff just shrugs.

“Really, I mean it. Thank you.”

And something settles into Cliff’s chest when Rick says that again. Something warm and soft that he’s never named but felt grow over the past nine years. Rick had always patted his shoulder and tossed out  thanks pal ’s but this was deeper than that. This encompassed their life together.

Maybe this really finalized that their life together was over. The end of the road.

Thank you, when it’s coming from a man who rushed to your side when you were stabbed in his home, doesn’t just mean thank you.

“You’re welcome,” Cliff says, not at all meaning just  you’re welcome .

He means  of course . He means  I’d do it all again if I could . He means I love you .

Rick is the one who reaches and grabs Cliff’s hand, like he might understand what Cliff’s trying to say. He squeezes it once and sighs, relieved, when Cliff squeezes back.

“I’ll visit you tomorrow. And c-call me when they release you, okay?”

“Don’t worry about me, boss.”

“M’not your boss,” Rick says, sadly as he stands.

“Don’t worry about me, pal.”

Rick shakes his head, “You know that ain’t gonna h-happen.”

Yeah. Cliff does. That’s how these two men, their lives melded and shaped around each other, function. Cliff takes care of Rick and Rick worries about Cliff. Sometimes vice-versa. Always with more intensity than a stuntman and actor should feel.

**Author's Note:**

> Writing that ‘morning in the hospital after the attack’ scene for what feels like the millionth time. Can’t get enough of these fools.
> 
> (Also I wrote this on my phone so I blame that for any and all errors)


End file.
